


Pandemonium

by blak_cat



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blak_cat/pseuds/blak_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chaos was the law of nature, order was the dream of man. In the wake of all that has happened, something dangerous has taken notice of Manolo, María, and Joaquín and wants to watch them crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got a story going and I'm excited. Also pandemonium is one of my favorite words ever so yay. All the demons.

Hell is empty, all the devils are here - William Shakespeare

"Your turn."

The room was cluttered with books and sheet paper, the miscellaneous guitar string, attempts at notes on bullfighting techniques. An old cape was thrown on a corner chair, his bed was shoved into one corner, unmade. A vase sat on the dresser full of deep red roses. Tacked to the wall in odd places were posters for Manolo's bullfight and old ones for members of his family passed.

In the middle of the room Manolo and María were facing each other, between them was a cup and a bottle of tequila. Manolo was staring intently at her, leaned forward hands pressed together and positioned beneath his nose like a prayer.

"You…" he thought. "Have never been dancing."

"Drink."

"Ay, no, no, mentiroso,," he said. But she looked triumphant, leaning back onto her palms and tipping her head. "When did you go dancing in a convent?"

He poured his penance into the cup and threw it into his mouth. It was tangy as before, but progressively less numbing now on his third go. He gave a shudder and smacked his lips together.

"Once a year we had a dinner and service with the boy's school across the city. After all the sisters had gone to sleep we'd sneak out together," she said with a quirked eyebrow and she poorly suppressed a giggle when Manolo looked like a devastated puppy.

She leaned forward and grabbed his wrists.

"Relax, Manolo. I was thirteen and most of those boys ended up priests," she said. "And besides, it's not like you haven't had your share."

"What did Joaquín tell you?"

"Enough that I was mildly jealous," she said. "Was. Perhaps still am. A little. Really Manolo, Rosaria Saenz?"

"I'm going to kill Joaquín."

"I'm kidding Manolo. Mostly."

She leaned forward and gave his collar a tug to meet her in the middle. She kissed him softly but with purpose, even after his neck began to complain from the strain and angle. He wouldn't pull away even with a knife to his throat.

"You taste like tequila," she murmured against his lips.

"I keep losing."

"I guess I just know you better than you know me."

"We should change that."

And she leaned forward again. This time she pushed her knees up to properly kiss him, hands sliding around his neck. He shifted and hiked her skirt a bit to straddle his legs and they continued. Her hands wandered now, his own were too nervous to move away from their grip on her hips. Her fingers found the buttons of his jacket and began popping them one by one, opening the lapels. She splayed her hands out on his chest and slid up, fingertips pushing the jacket from his shoulders. He pulled his hands from her to shrug the jacket off completely and tossed it.

It occurred to Manolo at this point the door to his balcony was still open, the din below was quiet and seemed completely unaware the guests of honor had vanished an hour ago. He let it be, especially when her fingers began unknotting his tie.

"You're good at that," Manolo said when they broke to pull the tie over his head. He was afraid to ask if it was from experience.

"I imagined doing it all day," she whispered. Her deep blush revealed the girlish nervousness she was trying to hide, but it was still enough to earn a shudder.

The buttons were her next project and now he could feel her hands shaking. He pretended not to notice and didn't dare remove an article of her clothing without her first asking. Soon enough, he was free from the shirt and his bare torso was playground for her hands.

Until her hands brushed something odd and she looked down on reflex. She'd come across a scar, oddly shaped low on his stomach, not far from the belly button. It started like a puncture wound, oblong but then pulling back and around his hip like the tail of comet.

"No one said it was a safe profession," he said, sheepish.

"You were gored?" she said. Her fingers went back to it without warning or permission. His stomach twitched, fighting off the tickle.

"Only once. First time I faced a real bull when I was fourteen," he said. "They had to take the appendix too."

He drew her lower to a smoother, lighter scar right next to his hipbone.

"It hurt," she said. He nodded.

"I passed right out," he said. "Joaquín laughed at me."

She looked horrified.

"After I was better, of course," he said. "First thing I saw when I woke up."

She rolled her eyes and looked over him more. Manolo felt his ears go red at her inspection of him. Her eyes raked him more thoroughly than her hands ever could. She stopped her search at something on the left side of his chest.

"And that one?" he pointed.

Manolo looked down and spotted an odd shaped scar. It was something like an asymmetrical x with one slash longer than the other and it sat right over his heart.

"What?"

He'd never seen the scar before and had no recollection from where it could have come from. He'd only been truly hurt once in his life and the scars from that sat lower and already examined by María. This one was new.

"Manolo?" she said.

"I didn't—I didn't have this one, before," he said.

This was a new body, perhaps it came with new pieces. But this was not his scar, it couldn't be, it looked like something had stuck a knife in and then twisted a bit. But there it was, visible to both sets of eyes.

"Before you…Before you died?" she said, looking down.

A part of him wanted to find his old body and compare. Joaquín said he planned on burying it in the morning. But he couldn't leave for that, abandoning his wedding night to ogle his own dead body and find differences. María already shut down the topic, even jokes about to for now were off limits.

Which is why he'd have to go tomorrow, early in the morning, before she woke and before Joaquín gave it a final resting place.

"It's nothing," he said. "I probably got it while I was down there."

She seemed half convinced. So he kissed her. This time it was hungry and ambitious and she, not to be outdone, very quickly fought back. Tongues became involved quickly and María made it more of a game than ever. He felt her smile against him when he groaned and her hands latched tightly onto his shoulders, decidedly avoiding the anomaly below.

After a few moments she took one of his hands, reattached to her hip, and moved it to the buttons at the back of her dress. He gave the slightest jump and she rested her lips to place her forehead on his, her hands placed on either side of his face.

"Manolo."

That was all he needed to hear and he obeyed.

At some point in the middle of the night Manolo woke up and realized they were both on the floor, wrapped in a blanket he'd pulled from the bed. He moved them to the bed and he rested in next to her. In her sleep she'd clung tightly to him and he made him all the guiltier when he woke again to sunlight and brushed her hands away.

He shimmied out as carefully as he could and moved to the balcony, shutting the door quietly and pulling the blinds closed completely. He began throwing on his discarded clothes from last night and gave a minor attempt at making himself look presentable. In the bed, only María's head was visible from under the blanket, her own bare body hidden away.

He pressed a kiss to her forward and brushed a strand hair back behind her ear.

"Te amo," he whispered against her skin before backing away and slipping out of the room as swiftly as possible.

He trotted down the road. Few people were out this early except for vendors. The dust of movement hadn't kicked up yet and he privately despaired at not getting to watch the sunrise turn the city gold from the tree. The air was still cool and the occasional breeze gave him goosbumps where the shirt was loose enough to let the wind in.

A stray coyote crossed the road in front of him and he turned a few corners, dodged many odd looks, and smiled at a few congratulations. He stepped through debris and rubble and eventually reached the Case de Mondragon. It was not often occupied with Joaquín out on duty most of the year. Smaller than the Casa de Posada, it was still ornate and an obvious step (or steps) up from Manolo's own house.

He didn't bother to knock, pushing the door open (and he made a mental note to remind Joaquín the medal no longer protected him and he needed to lock the doors). The house was still dark and very still. He went upstairs, dodging the creaky fourth step.

Joaquín's room was slightly ajar and he slid in, making for the lump under the covers, face down in the pillow. He put a firm grip to his shoulder and shoved.

"Huh! Wha-?" Joaquín jumped up, bleary eyed. He quickly became tangled in his sheets as he flipped around to get a better view of his intruder.

"It's me," Manolo said and Joaquín groaned, dropping down into the pillow. Manolo saw a new bandage wrapped around his head and spots of browning red on the pillow.

"You really should get that looked at," Manolo said.

"I looked at it, it's fine," he said into the pillow.

"By a real doctor, María will kill you if you don't," he said.

"Well I don't see her here right now," he said. "Which brings me to my next question…"

He didn't finish as he sat up and sat looking at Manolo with his one visible eye, one eyebrow quirked.

"I came with an odd favor," he said.

"Odder than the night you snuck into my room asking for rice to feed that rabbit you hid from Carlos?"

"Yes."

Joaquín sighed and stood. He walked over to a cushioned chair and the corner and removed a wrinkled button up shirt, giving it a new home on his shoulders. He looked into the vanity mirror and carefully pulled away the bandage. He let out staccato grunts as he pried it from places where the dry blood glued it to his skin.

Manolo winced as he got the mirror's view of an indent where his eye should be. The flesh was hidden in shadow, coagulated blood, and gunpowder residue. It looked unimaginably painful, even more so for Joaquín who hadn't felt true pain in almost ten years.

"You're going to get that looked at later today," Manolo said, watching him unravel a new bandage. "No arguments."

"You sound like her already."

He pulled the white fabric taught and tied it in a not behind his opposite ear. Manolo watched a portion stain brown as it pressed to the wound.

"But, let's hear your strange favor first, hermano," he said, turning around to look at the real Manolo.

"Did you bury it yet? My body," he said.

Joaquín sobered quickly and averted his gaze.

"No, it's, uh, it's down in the guest room. I got it out of your house but I didn't have a chance to—"

"I want to see it."

Joaquín's head shocked back a few inches on reflex and his brows knitted together quickly underneath the gauze. He was already shaking his head when Manolo opened his mouth again.

"I need to see it, I just want to look," he explained.

"Manolo are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's not for the reasons you think. I'll explain just, let me see it."

Joaquín lead him downstairs, not without many reluctant sighs. He didn't speak to Manolo the entire walk down, he occasionally looked back hoping for a change of heart. He unlocked the door to the guest room and pushed it open. He twisted a gaslight on the wall giving a dim red halo to the body laid out on the table.

Joaquín hung by the door as Manolo stepped in towards his twin on the table. It was pale and waxy, hands laced together over its chest beneath which the double of Manolo's heart remained still. The clothes were dusty, torn a bit. The fang marks were visible in the socks.

"Woah, woah," Joaquín called out when he saw Manolo begin to undress the upper half. He stepped into the room and grabbed Manolo's arm.

"Just let me, I'll show you," Manolo said.

He twisted off the time pulled it off, cringing when the head dropped heavily back onto the table. He unbuttoned the top few buttons and parted the two sides of the shirt to reveal the sunken skin underneath.

The smooth, unmarred skin.

"What?" he whispered.

"¿Manolo qué demonios?" he hissed.

"Look!"

Manolo opened his own shirt to reveal the scar. Joaquín looked, looked at the body and back again. He stepped a bit closer and squinted, forcing his eye to work.

"The scar?" he said.

"I have it, he doesn't," he pointed to the body.

"Weird, when did you notice that?"

"María found it when—"

Manolo turned away and quickly cleared his throat; Joaquín raised an eyebrow and looked down as Manolo rebuttoned his shirt with a red face.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Right," Joaquín said. "You're sure you didn't have it before?"

"I think I would notice."

Joaquín just hummed in thought and watched Manolo rebutton the body as well. He rubbed his unshaven chin pondering it.

"It's weird but, you could have easily gotten it while you were adventuring down below," Joaquín said.

"I don't know, it's just strange."

"I agree, but it doesn't hurt right? Then nothing to worry about or leave your wife the morning after your wedding night for," Joaquín said, looking at him again.

Manolo nodded and made his way for the door muttering a thank you.

"You can help, if you want, say goodbye I guess," Joaquín offered quietly.

"I think I've had enough looking at myself for one day," Manolo said.

"Just as well, you know what they say about seeing your doppleganger," Joaquín flashed a grin and bounced an eyebrow waiting for the over-laughter he was so used to others spewing at his joke.

Manolo rolled his eyes but smiled back, fingers itching to touch the new gnarled flesh on his chest. He nodded a farewell and Joaquín returned it crossing his arms. Joaquín would worry about him, it started shortly after the wedding, the looks from both of them. He couldn't blame them, from life to death and life again was more than anyone made in a lifetime let alone in 24 hours. Part of him wondered if they both were afraid they were dreaming only to wake in front of his grave.

Well, he had one now, or would when Joaquín was done. He'd be the only living man with a grave and tombstone, one he'd never visit if he could help it and María would forget exists. He should have gone with Joaquín, he shouldn't have to shoulder it alone. But he had to get back, María might very well be an early riser and the last thing he wanted was her to wake alone on her first morning as a married woman.

More people were out on the street now and Manolo hurried before they took too much note of his presence or appearance. He slipped back into the house quietly and paused for a few agonizing moments to listen for damming sound of movement.

Nothing.

He moved back up to his room where María still lay sleeping, her position changed slightly, but still buried under the covers. He removed his clothes and again and laid back down beside her and relished the warm feel of skin on skin, trying to fight away the image of his own waxy skin and bloodless face.

He looked at her face, peaceful, smooth, and framed by her curly hair. Her eyes moved beneath their lids and her mouth looked like it wanted to smile. He allowed his blinking to get longer so the image of her face was the last thing he saw before he eyes closed altogether.

He was lulled back into sleep by her breathing. And for every dream he did not have the night before, nightmares began.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After how this chapter turned out (and other stuff I plan to do), I'm definitely gonna have to do a companion piece about the origins of Xibalba and La Muerte, which I got once as a fic request but I couldn't think of a good enough story. I think I got one now. That said, I'm not sure how happy I am with all these scene breaks in this chapter but eh.

The mind is its own place and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven – John Milton

The first thing Manolo dreamed, or it may have all been one long, segmented story, but the first thing he dreamed of was bulls. They were everywhere, running around him, running through him, circling him. They chased him across the town while everyone laughed, he was backed into a corner and cowered.

Then he was trapped, alive and well in his own coffin. He banged and banged and banged on the lid but it didn't budge. He screamed and shook and banged. But it was dark, it got darker. Suddenly he was no longer in the coffin but just walking in black all alone. Something was calling his name. There was no wind, no difference between where he was and where he was going.

"Manolo!"

He ran towards the call.

"Manolo!"

He needed to reach the voice, he needed freedom. The skin on the left side of his chest burned and he was sure something grabbed him by the arm.

"Manolo!"

His eyes opened. A very dazed but worried María was perched on an elbow above him. Her free hand was latched tightly onto his forearm. As for himself, his hair was glued to his forehead from sweat and he had to blink several times to clear his vision completely.

"I'm sorry," he said reflexively. He dropped his head back into his pillow but María stayed put looking down.

"What did you dream about?" she said.

"Nothing, just…" He didn't finish.

She ran her fingers through his damp hair, pushing off his skin.

"You were yelling."

"Just a bad dream."

She sighed and dropped her head onto his chest, her hand rested right over the scar and he pretended not to notice despite how hot it felt beneath her. He wrapped an arm around her and played with her hair, eyes glued to the ceiling. Based on the sunlight through the balcony he had not been asleep long. He wondered if Joaquín was still outside of town somewhere burying the body. He wondered how María would feel if she knew.

He should tell María about the lack of care given to his eye, she'd force him to a doctor today before it got infected. Of course he'd have to explain exactly how he knew Joaquín had lied about getting his eye looked at last night like he promised.

But then he didn't want to leave either, stay in bed all day seemed like an appetizing plan, especially with the sounds of María's breathing growing more steady, the absent circles she was drawing on his chest slowd until they ceased. He closed his own eyes and let his hand in her hair go slack. He hoped for a dreamless sleep.

From outside a coyote let out a high pitched howl.

Odd, La Muerte thought to herself from her perch on the roof of the Casa de Sánchez.

The coyote's howl died down and La Muerte focused her energy on sensing Manolo's. He'd drifted off to sleep again and she had to fight hard to resist the urge to send a blessing of flowers over his sleeping body to fend off dreams.

"I might just get jealous of the boy."

In a flutter of wings a shadow stepped between her and the sun. She heard the clank of his staff and turned to face him, tilting her head up. She held out a hand and he took it, pulling her to her feet.

"I simply wanted to check on them they don't know I'm here," she said.

"Do you get the urge to check on me in my sleep?"

"I might if you slept."

She moved around him in a circle and relished in feeling his eyes watch her for every second of it. She aimlessly ran a hand down the spine of a wing and she felt him try to hide his shudder.

"Jealous of a boy, Xibalba? You must think so little of yourself," she said.

"He is a man, as much as it causes me great irritation to admit, and I know how attached you are to—"

"Don't even start."

"It's perfectly understandable, you feeling drawn to them, you were once a-"

"Enough."

She retreated quickly, in a flash of confetti and marigolds, to the cemetery, still covered in decorations from the previous day where it was not torn apart by the battle. As she suspected, Xibalba had followed quickly, appearing next to her.

"I meant no offense my dear," he said.

"I know," she sighed.

"Manolo seems to be handling the transitions, life, death, life quite well. I think you worry too much," he said.

"No, I worry period. You don't worry at all."

She took a seat on the head of the grave and twiddled her fingers in the air, generating gold strands and mists that she allowed the wind to blow away. After a few moments Xibalba covered her sparking hands with his own tar covered claws. Long ago he learned not to cringe at the sight of their hands compared, she never once did.

"That comment, you know," he mumbled. He always mumbled when he was about to admit something embarrassing. "That comment about the sleeping. I just—I sometimes think you might one day prefer again someone who can sleep. Amongst other things."

She smiled and took his face in her other hand, pulling it took face her own. The red skulls in his eyes looked away still. She leaned forward and gave him a quick, but poignant kiss. When she pulled back his eyes were closed, slowly remembering to open.

"I prefer you above all others, my love," she said, sincerely. "I just worry about him. About them. What we did hurt them Balby."

"The gods can do as they please."

"That' doesn't help."

"You can't protect them from everything."

"I can do my best."

"Send out trials and tribulations left and right, but help and protection does not come free."

She rolled her eyes and tried to allow herself to enjoy the quiet moment in their sanctuary, no humans around, nor animals. The sun was unobstructed by any clouds and a light breeze flickered her candles and rattled the skulls hanging around her head. The black feathers pressed to her back shook in the window but Xibalba seemed calmer than she'd known him in a long time.

"I heard a coyote earlier," she said. "Strange, hearing one howl in the day."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Not here though."

"We'll move into the master bedroom, I promise," Manolo said, carrying two plates of breakfast to the table. "I just, I wanted to give it some time—"

A thin finger pressed against his lips. It was midmorning and birds could be heard begging for scraps from the window, the low wind rattled the wind chime into a beautiful mess of melodies and Manolo had never been more thankful to be awake before.

"It's okay, it'll take time," she said. And she meant it. She carried to glasses to the table but kept shooting glances at him.

Manolo wanted to give her more than his teenage room to sleep in the night she became his wife, but he couldn't bring himself to sleep (or anything else) in the bed his recently dead father had woken up in the morning before. María seemed to read his thoughts though and placed a warm palm to his shoulder before moving to sit down at the other end of the table.

They ate breakfast quietly. The house seemed so much bigger now with one less person inhabiting it. Everything seemed to echo more and suddenly he had more food than he knew what to do with, there was extra space everywhere, extra chairs, extra blankets, extra pillows.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Of course," she said, taking a sip of water.

"When your mother died, did your house suddenly feel—"

"Giant and empty?"

He gave her a sad smile and she wiped her mouth and got up. She came to kneel next to his chair and placed a hand on his wrist, her thumb stroking patterns on the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry mi amor, but I promise it will pass," she said.

"I know. Fast I think, thanks to you."

She gave him a kiss to the temple and got up.

"So," he said, suddenly lighter. "What are your plans for the day Mrs. Sánchez?"

"Well, let's see," she said. "What do married people normally do?" She was teasing and Manolo go up to join her, his hands resting on her hips.

"Well, I think the start with this." He kissed her. "Then this." Again. "And this." And again. She laughed and pushed him away playfully.

"You could play me a song," she offered. He nodded.

"Your wish is my command."

Later in the day they did go to see Joaquín and María nearly slapped him all the way to Spain when she saw the state of his wounded eye. They dragged him to the door of the doctor, and sat for hours while they cleaned up the socket. In the end, it had been a painful process. Much of the flesh in and around where his eye once was had to be removed, parts sewn up and cleaned. He emerged eventually, looking exhausted and pained, with a new eye patch sitting there.

Upon their return home, they once again retired to Manolo's bed. He plucked absently at the guitar strings while María was deep in reading. He hummed a bit here and there and caught her smiling into her book. After a few moments he began to nudge her with the guitar, feigning accident but continued and continued until she finally turned to him with exasperation masking amusement.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"You're beautiful," he said, playing chords now. She turned red and tucked a hair behind her ear.

"What song is that?"

"It isn't. I'm just playing."

"Oh Manolo," she sighed and looked at him. "The talent you have even at your most bored most people don't even have in their left pinky."

"It comes from you."

"No, you play it for me. But it comes from you."

They got quiet again and continued until it was well after midnight, playing music, reading, sometimes she'd read parts, allowed to him and at one point he even handed her the guitar and taught her an easy chord or two.

They drifted off to sleep, arm in arm. A coyote howled again. And Manolo dreamed of turning to dust.

La Muerte watched the coyote with narrowed eyes. She'd have to ask Xibalba, he knew it better than she did. But now theories were brewing in her mind and she'd have her husband confirm. She listened to the sounds of María waking Manolo from a restless and loud sleep. She listened to him comfort her until she was convinced into going back to sleep.

But La Muerte did not sense Manolo falling back asleep. In fact his energy was aggravated, as if fighting it. Scared to sleep was not good, it was a feeling she knew though she had not felt it since…

She'd get Xibalba. She'd watch for the beast. She left a marigold outside their room for protection and eventually felt Manolo drift off.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe that's what hell is, you go mad and all your demons come and get you just as fast as you can think them up -- Anna Rice

She paced outside. Back and forth back and forth, under the cover of a cloud that blocked the moon over the town. Perfect. The man in the room upstairs, wide awake, wouldn't be able to see her, but she was sure he felt her presence. In his head, outside the window. Everywhere at once. The girl with him was asleep now and he was laying, eyes open, all alone.  
When the cat's away…the coyote will rip his brain out.

Not too soon of course. That was the least fun part, the best was watching it all fall to pieces because there was no center that could hold. The dreams were a good start, but they were little in comparison to what she had cooked up in his head. She would start talking to him soon, and the woman, and even the one-eyed soldier. She had so many choices of faces she could wear to make them insane, make them scared, make them cry.

She liked playing with the dead ones, they were so few and far between, the ones whose hearts started up again. The ones with the scar. And what a gift this man was, a hundred years since the last one and she got a singer, a musician, a poet. She liked the kinds that were interesting, the ones who were creative. But this man was something else entirely, he'd outsmarted Xibalba. Up until now, she held the distinction of being the only one in history to manage that feat.

"Sweet dreams Manolo Sánchez," she whispered.

She took one last look at the balcony window. She would have to separate him from the girl. She was too comforting, too much of a shield, too dangerous and besides, she needed each one of them very much alone.

"You think it's the coyote." His tone told her, he didn't believe her.

"I think it's possible," she said.

"Why?"

They back in her own realm, locked in a room in her castle to be certain no one, and no thing, would hear them. He was lounged, feet up, with wings draped over the back of his chair. In his hand he sipped wine, hers was untouched as she paced the length of the study. Her sombrero, discarded on the chaise lounge.

"He's having nightmares," she said.

"All of them have nightmares," he said.

"Not like this," she said. "His energy is—"

"Oh you sense his energy now?"

"Would you stop?"

La Muerte was connected to everyone in her world. In flash she could focus in on any one person, find where they are, sense their emotions. She kept it to a minium, out of privacy for her citizens, but it did come in handy. Even transplanted back onto Earth, Manolo's energy reached her and it was callous, and unsteady. It didn't sit still. And it did not seem to be getting any rest.

"Being brought to life is taxing, I imagine," Xibalba said.

"Taxing?" she said. "It's strange, and unnatural, and polarizing and—"

"And all the more reasons for him to have nightmares, it does not mean that thing is reeking havoc."

She sighed and finally sat down. She plucked a flower and examined it, petal by petal. Xibalba did not understand because he was disconnected from the humans. His was the land of shadows and dust, not people with lives and histories and families. He cared for no one except himself, and her. He would not seek to help Manolo and the others on his own, but he would do if he thought it's what she wanted.

"Go look for yourself," she said. "Please."

"Oh good, it's my turn to tuck the kiddies in," he rolled his eyes.

"Please."

Her voice wasn't teasing or playful and he noticed this time. She wanted to believe everything was fine and Manolo was simply dealing with aftershocks of his ordeal. But few things scared her, even now as a god, as the coyote did. And if she was targeting Manolo that was bad, but if she knew how closely La Muerte watched him, she would not hesitate to pull at Manolo's heartstrings and thoughts until both were broken.

"I'll look for myself tonight," he said. "If, for some reason, it is that thing then at least she might show her to me."

She nodded. He'd see and once he did they'd have to form a plan. She did not relent once attached, she would hunt Manolo to the end of the Earth and perhaps even beyond. They had to warn him, and María and Joaquín.

But how do you fight what doesn't bleed?

In this dream Manolo was held prisoner in the Land of the Remembered, chained to the floor and no one around to hear his screams. The fiestas were no where to be seen and the colors all around seemed to be melting like candle wax. He looked up through something like the frame of a painting and he watched Joaquín and María marry in his absence, he watched them kiss and dance. He watched them lay together in the same bed. The scene flashed forward to their children. The chains pulled him down and down and down into the ground until they were gone from his sight completely. He was dragged below until it was freezing cold and everything was grey and the people around him were faceless and drifting in the dust.

They all forgot…something said.

"No, no. I came back, we married I—"

A dream, nothing more…

"She loves me!"

She married the soldier…

"No, La Muerte, where is La Muerte?"

The voice paused, it thought. The energy changed. Whatever was around him was backing away, something caught it off guard.

Then immediately he tossed out of the dream and into midday light. He thrashed himself out of the sheets and pillows, falling onto the floor, hip first. He groaned at the already blossoming bruise. He pushed himself up and reached for his button up sweater.

He made his way downstairs.

María and Joaquín were both hunched over an ornate chessboard, deep in combat. White, María, currently had the advantage but one slip with a particular pawn fending off a rook and her king was done for. Joaquín was smirking at her. It was a mind game, she told herself, he has nothing, he was just trying to scare her.

"You know, if this was timed—"

"Shh!"

She folded her fingers beneath her chin. Once or twice she moved her fingers towards a piece, then back again. Each time Joaquín smile got closer and closer to that of a fox. His eye patch made him sinister.

She made her move and immediately regretted it.

He, faster than she could retract her hand he reached out and struck her king down with a flourish.

"You know you could just say checkmate," she said. "You don't have to destroy my pieces."

"Sorry."

They cleared the board and put the pieces back into the compartment below the board. Chuy was asleep, nestled against María's leg. He stopped glaring at Joaquín finally and drifted off in a series of steady oinks. She wondered if he was jealous, though he never usually gave the same frosty treatment to Manolo.

"Manny's still asleep?"

It was almost noon, the cool breeze from the morning was gone completely and heat was visibly rising from the sand in ripples. Birds and people were both active now, carts creaked over bumps in the road, children let out yells as they played ball, a cloud moved from in front of the sun sending the light in through the windows. The remnants of breakfast sat in the kitchen, half eaten.

And Manolo was asleep through all of it.

"He didn't sleep much last night—the past couple nights," she said. She watched his eyebrows get ready to raise. "Not like that."

"Well considering you found that thing on his chest…"

"I think that's what's bothering him. And it's good to know even my husband is a pig about talking about that to other men."

She stood and walked into the kitchen to put on tea, Joaquín followed her, wordlessly getting the teacups out while she filled the kettle. He plated the teacups.

"We weren't discussing it," he said. "He turned beet red when it slipped out. He mentioned it while he was checking the body—"

Too late.

She wheeled around.

Her face was searing.

"What?"

"I didn't—He didn't—that wasn't," Joaquín tried but María's face was murder until the initial shock of being lied to wore down to something like devastation.

"When did he go to—to see?" she said, turning back to the kettle to busy herself. There were other questions in there: why didn't he tell me, why didn't he take me, what else does he not want me to know.

"A week ago, before I buried it. He was convinced that the scar on his chest wasn't there before…before it happened," he said.

"Was it?"

"No."

She was trying to figure out what upset her more, knowing he didn't tell her, knowing he'd snuck out of their bedroom and back in, knowing that something might truly be wrong with him, or the gnawing feeling that there could be repeat incidents. And then the mystery of the wound to his chest, now confirmed to be an anomaly of this new body granted to him by the gods.

"He hasn't slept Joaquín," she said. "He wakes up from the dreams but doesn't go back to sleep. I don't know if he can't or he's not letting himself," she said. She dropped against the counter.

"He's asleep now," Joaquín said quietly. And it was a comfort but selfish part of her was hurt that it seemed only when she was out of the room did he find solace. "María I don't know what's going on, but I'm sure it'll pass. A lot happened. Well, that's an understatement but…This will get better."

"It doesn't seem like it."

"It never does while it's happening. I thought the same thing when my father was killed and when you left. It will be okay soon."

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes hearing Joaquín talk about himself did have its benefits. She turned and smiled at him and wrapped her arms tightly around him and squeezed. She relished the feeling of hugging him for the first real time since she said goodbye to him as a boy on the train platform.

That's when the shuffling to the side began and they broke apart to see Manolo, wrapped in his sweater, wander into the kitchen.

He looked awful.

His eyes seemed to retreat into the sockets, circles of darkness surrounded them and he seemed pale. His hair was matted and flat on his head and he stood like a bag of potatoes was latched to each shoulder. His gaze was moving between María and Joaquín and his brow was firm in something too passive to be a glare, but too unkind to be anything else.

"You're awake," María said.

He just gave a nod, staring right at Joaquín.

Xibalba noted the incident.

"What did you dream of boy?" he mumbled, placing his chin on his staff, watching the cool exchange of glances in the kitchen. He, of course, had a hunch, based on the glare he was giving Joaquín.

He watched as María tried to engage him in conversation, only to receive one-word answers, nods, and sometimes nothing at all. More than that the boy looked terrible, not only were his eyes something like pits, but he appeared to be thinning and Xibalba noticed he didn't touch his food. He sat with shoulders scooped forward in a hunch and when he wasn't doing that he was slouched back in his chair. He stared into space, eyes wide as he zoned out of his surroundings.

"I need more than that boy," Xibalba said.

He wanted to help Manolo if it meant calming La Muerte but he would not exert energy for a human over human problems. And right now, he simply looked like a neglectful husband and poor friend.

But that was the problem wasn't it? Manolo was not those things. He willingly died to be with María, he was ready to give his life for his friend and town, no one but the girl looked happier on their wedding day. And now he looked ill and angry and like something from the graveyard misplaced in a scene of life.

If she was here, now would be the time.

"Find her for me," he said and tapped his staff to the ground and the snake slithered along while he watched.

It parted the sand beneath its body as it swam across the street. It was gone for only a few moments before it slithered back in return and slid up to hiss in his ear. Xibalba was gone in a flash to the alley around the house and spotted a coyote, indistinguishable and quite plain pacing around the outside of the house. The dog turned to him and when it did it transformed immediately, taking the shape of a young woman Xibalba knew all too well. He felt his blood boil.

"Well, well," she said, using her voice. "Xibalba."

It's not her voice, he told himself, it's not her face.

"Your tricks don't work on me, I'm not human," he said.

"No, but I finally found one that certainly winds you up," it said. "Dear old friend, you appear to be spying."

"What are you doing here?"

"What I always do. This is a good one, I love playing with the dead ones. So tortured and misunderstood. This one's a young musician, it's even better. He's dripping with angst," it said. "And, he let slip a secret."

"Good for him. Now leave."

"It was a very fascinating secret."

"Oh look at that, the answer to a question I didn't ask."

The woman's form circled him, with her eyes she stared at him the entire time, like a vulture.

"This one's La Muerte's, isn't that just lovely?" she said. Then it stopped right next to his ear and leaned in to whisper. "I will certainly relish finally tearing out your wife's heart by making her watch me rip this one's open."

Xibalba lunged at her with enough anger that he tear a hole in the brick wall he hit instead when she vanished. He paused a moment to look at the wall before all at once lunging again and hitting the wall two or three more times in a shout.

He'd kill her, he'd rip every single one of her faces off and then punch her so far into the Earth not even the Land of the Forgotten would be refuge for her. He'd scared her into hiding once before and he wouldn't let her try again, not for Manolo, not for María, not for Joaquín. But he'd implode the universe, stand before the Old Ones, anything it took to keep her away from his wife. Again.

He flashed away to La Muerte. They had to get to the boy before he fell asleep again.


	4. Chapter 4

Pray for the dead, fight like hell for the living – Mother Jones

María watched Manolo's eyes close and open slowly as his head lulled. They were on the couch, Joaquín was in the arm chair across the table writing feverously. Manolo sat, slumped, next to her on the couch, one hand gripping the arm of the couch, the other laid across his stomach. He seemed well on his way to fall asleep but putting up a reasonable fight against it.

From her sketchpad María recorded it and felt a pit form in her stomach as she saw just how strange he looked to her now with every stroke of the pencil. She had to add in dark circles around his eyes, she had to draw his shoulders unsupported and low, she had to capture is lifeless and sweat stained hair. And she also had to add in the tip of the scar that was visible from the v opening at the top of the buttons on his sweater. For the first time in a while, drawing put her in an awful mood.

Across the room his guitar, her engraving facing them, sat unused in days.

He grunted in his half asleep state and she put down her pencil and watched him. His eyebrows dropped into a scowl and lines appears on his forehead. She watched both his hands curl up into fists and back, multiple times and his knuckles went from pink to white and back again. His jaw was clenching as his teeth bit down on each other. His eyelids opened and closed occasionally, his eyes were unfocused, sometimes even rolling around. He let out more grunts and sometimes things almost like words.

"Is this what it looks like?" Joaquín asked, also watching now. María reached out to tuck Manolo's hair behind his ear.

"Yes, but it's usually more violent than—"

Manolo, in his sleep, grabbed at her arm, tightly, painfully. She cried out in surprise and a bit in pain. He shoved, and she was unseated from the couch and onto the floor, her forearm stripped with four white marks from where his fingers had been.

Chuy let out a squeal of panic and now Manolo was thrashing and yelling, she couldn't tell in fear or in anger. Joaquín was on his feet and took a knee to Manolo's stomach and pressed while holding down his arms. That did not sit well with the sleeping Manolo who only seemed to get angrier.

"She's mine!" he yelled with closed eyes. "She remembers me!"

"What the hell—"

Manolo's free hand swung aimlessly, trying to fight something in his dream. It collided with Joaquín's chest, not hard, but enough to make him angry. He lunged at the arm and slammed it into the arm of the couch. Manolo gave out a cry.

"Joaquín! Don't hurt him!" María called, scrambling to her feet.

"He threw you off the couch!" Joaquín shouted back, struggling with what appeared to be a surprisingly strong Manolo.

"He's dreaming!"

She marched over, placed two firm hands on Joaquín's shoulders and yanked back.

He obeyed and pulled off of Manolo who was now free to swing his arms and yell as he pleased. He gave slurred shouts of "They remember me!", "I'm a alive!", and "You're a liar!" over and over again.

María ran into the kitchen and grabbed the water they'd pulled from the pump this morning, she took it back into the living room and dumped it over his head, shocking his eyes open.

He blinked several times and whirled his head around. He stilled his arms and legs immediately and sucked in as much air as his lungs would let him. The water hung in droplets off of his wavy hair as his head stilled and locked eyes with María. And for a second she saw pure, childish fear in his eyes, they were huge and frightened and even a little bit begging for forgiveness. But then it was gone and nothing but anger stared back at her as the door to his mind closed to her again.

He stood and shook out his hair. He turned to Joaquín who shot his angry glare right back at him.

"You're still here," Manolo said.

"I'm visiting friends."

They were glaring at one another. Manolo moved out from between the couch and table and Joaquín defensively took a step back. As much as María didn't want to see either of them hurt, she was mentally preparing to tackle whichever one of them decided to throw the inventible first punch.

"That all?" Manolo said, sliding towards the fireplace while Joaquín backed up.

"What does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

María watched Manolo's face as his eyes occasionally averted, focusing on something in the empty space as if someone was talking in his ear. Then he turned back to stare at Joaquín. He grabbed onto the mantle and squeezed tightly.

"You won't take her from me."

As it directed at Joaquín or something else, María wasn't sure but in that second she watched him rip his father's bullfighting saber from the mantle and lunge at Joaquín. And in that same instant she let out a yell and dove for the two of them, a flash of flowers occurred and suddenly Manolo was grabbed by Xibalba, who held him by the neck and lifted.

Grateful as María was for the intervention, she cringed at the gasping sounds Manolo made.

"Put him down!" she ordered.

"First things first," he said to María and then turned to the gasping and clawing Manolo in his hands. "Boy, I will not hesitate to throw you into the wall, put it down."

Manolo dropped the sword instantly and was set back down on the ground. He alternated between gasping in air and coughing as he doubled over with his hands on his knees. María moved to go to him but La Muerte put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back.

"Now, I apologize for this—sort of—but I've also wanted to do this for awhile."

And with that Xibalba punched Manolo square in the side of the forehead and he twisted back violently and right into the wall. There was a sharp knock of his head hitting first and then his hands slapped against the wall to steady himself as he slid slowly down, passed out before he hit the floor.

It was then that La Muerte let go of her and María rushed forward to the stomach down body of her husband, breathing through his mouth. Even Joaquín glared at Xibalba.

"Bastardo!" María hissed at Xibalba.

"What was that for?" Joaquín shouted.

"You're welcome for saving your life, by the way," Xibalba said. "The bullfighter might not like doing it, but he does know how to kill a bull. If I were a betting man, I would have put my money on him."

Joaquín said nothing and went over to kneel beside María. He grabbed Manolo around the shoulders and yanked him up. He scooped an arm under him and lifted. María joined in, lifting what she could of a man who was twice her size and together they moved him to the couch. They set him down and María lifted his head and sat, replacing it onto her lap.

She brushed through his still damp hair and saw the welt on Manolo's head beginning to form. His eyes were still and his breathing steady.

"He won't dream in that sleep, so when he wakes, he'll be himself again. A bit of a recalibration on his brain," Xibalba said. "When he's up we'll explain everything but at the very least I imagine you noticed he's been acting odd. At least I hope you have."

María kept her eyes down but Joaquín nodded.

"It's not his fault," La Muerte said.

"Well I mean, he is thinking the thoughts, she's just expounding on them—"

"It's not his fault."

La Muerte put her hands behind her back and paced in the minimal space their house afforded a god-sized being.

"Who is 'she'?" María said.

"We'll explain when he wakes," La Muerte said. "You don't want to have to listen to Balby complain about repeating himself." Xibalba gave a childish huff and turned.

They stayed that way for probably a half hour, waiting for Manolo to regain his bearings. María wished she had her sketchpad in arms reach so she could draw him this way, still and peaceful, and very nearly himself. From across the table she saw the tired, ill, and very nearly evil looking version of him.

She watched one brown eye open, then the other and she was overjoyed to see it was the boy she knew growing up staring back at her from below. He blinked away confusion and immediately slapped a hand to his head and groaned.

"Careful," María said, placing hands on his back and helping him to sit up.

He shook his head a little and then looked at his hands. He seemed particularly fixated on his gold wedding band. After a moment of reflection, he looked up at Xibalba.

"I'm not going to apologize if that's what you want," Xibalba said. Manolo rolled his eyes.

"But I will," La Muerte said. "Manolo this is not your fault."

"What's happening to me?" he asked quietly.

"Your ancestors called her Huehuecoyotl," Xibalba said. "It's not her real name. I'm not even sure she has one."

"And who is she?" Joaquín said.

"María knows," Xibalba said and she turned red at being caught with her angry gaze.

"A god of mischief," she said.

"You learned about pagan gods in a convent?" Joaquín said.

"They wanted us to recognize heathens," María said doing her best impression of a stuffy nun. "But Huehuecoyotl was a man, not a she."

"She can take any form she likes. I don't even know what her true form looks like. All we know about her is that she was human once," Xibalba explained.

"Humans can become gods?" Joaquín said. Had this situation not been so serious María could predict at least five follow-ups that included Joaquín thinking himself an excellent candidate for godhood.

"Yes."

La Muerte spoke up, but quietly. She was looking at Manolo with such pity she might have mistake her for Manolo's own mother Carmen. María had only met her one other time but even she could tell the woman was ill at ease.

"That's not the point," Xibalba said quickly. "She was human once, so she knows what hurts you. And she will hurt you. It seems she already has."

Manolo looked down, his hands were shaking. María reached out to take them but felt only the fleeting coldness of his skin as he pulled them away and refused to look at her. It was not in anger, she saw that in his eyes, but she still felt like a lead ball dropped in her stomach. La Muerte's eyes were on her but when she turned, the goddess looked away.

"She's a troublemaker," Xibalba said.

"You're a troublemaker," Manolo said quietly.

"I antagonize, I don't torture," Xibalba said, his head turned up with an air.

"You made me think María was dead and tricked me into…" Manolo trailed off.

"Into what? Killing yourself? I think you are partially responsible for that, boy," Xibalba said icily.

"We are not here to debate that," La Muerte said, stepping between them.

María forgave Manolo for his stupidity after what happened at the tree and painful as the memory may be to her. Manolo and Xibalba both saw the other one at true fault for that. They were dangerously alike sometimes, and María readjusted her position when she realized she'd struck the same irritated pose as La Muerte.

"She is dangerous," La Muerte said plainly. "She can get in your heads, she already has. It'll be more than dreams now Manolo."

"What does she want?" he said.

"Chaos, mischief, fun…for her," Xibalba said. "And since you let slip to our friend your connection to La Muerte, she will gun for you boy. And right now, she's winning."

"I don't know how to fight her," he said. "What does La Muerte have to do with it?"

"Complications," Xibabla said with a tone that told Manolo not to ask again.

"There is nothing harder to defeat than ailments in your mind, Manolo," La Muerte said, kneeling down to him. "Unfortunately, I cannot help you in this. You alone have to face this. I picked you all those years ago for a reason Manolo Sánchez. Prove me right."

María felt herself bud with warmth inside as La Muerte kissed his forehead. The color seemed to return to his body instantly, slouched and tired as he still looked, his cheeks livened up again and his face lightened.

"We can't intervene every time," Xibalba said. "But we will be watching. That said, the Candlemaker is older than us and knows far more. La Muerte is going to speak to him so I don't have to."

La Muerte glared at him and took a smack to his shoulder and María watched Manolo actually laugh and she felt herself smile too. Quiet as Joaquín had been through most of this she watched him lighten as well, a smile brewing under his mustache.

"And one more thing," Xibalba said. "She will mostly likely come to you in the form of people who've died, family, friends. She likes to do that. Don't be stupid."

María wanted to ask numerous questions on that topic but she was quickly shut down by a puff of air as the gods bid farewell with a promise to be watching, and departed. And the room was deadly quiet and echoing again. Manolo looked down for probably the tenth time that afternoon, Joaquín did the same. The stayed like that, hands in pockets, shuffling their feet and María rolled her eyes.

"If you two babies won't do it," she said, stepping toward them. "Joaquín, Manolo is very sorry for what happened, whether he was in control or not. Manolo, Joaquín is sorry for manhandling you, he was just trying to protect everyone. There?"

Both men looked up and finally nodded. The clapped hands firmly

"I won't let this thing get you, brother," Joaquín said. "Or any of us."

Manolo nodded.

They decided it best that Joaquín take the spare room downstairs. Manolo felt better knowing he was there though he knew María was slightly uneasy with the possibility of them getting into another physical fight. Joaquín swore he would do his best not to hurt Manolo, who in return swore he would try and fight this. But how did you do that? You can't hurt dreams just as much as they can't truly hurt you.

When he was alone with María in his room he rushed her, grabbed her face, and kissed her. She gave out a squeak of surprise before almost immediately kissing him back. It wasn't hungry or heated, but it was passionate. If the dreams, if this thing tried to steal him from her again, he wanted a memory, something to pull him out.

"María," he whispered, breaking them apart. "If it happens again, kiss me."

"What?"

"I'll remember this, it's how I'll find out what's real. I can't feel this in dreams and it can't whisper this in my ear. So kiss me, and I'll come back to you," he said.

She nodded and kept their foreheads pressed together, gently stroking the sides of his face. His hands resting on her hips were shaking again.

"What it is?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said back, his voice was hoarse and she looked into his eyes, pulling back, and saw them glistening. "I…"

He looked to her arm, bruising in the shape of his fingers.

"It wasn't you," she said. But he heard an edge on her voice that told him she was scared.

It wasn't me, he swore to himself. It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.


	5. Chapter 5

God too has a hell: it is his love of man - Friedrich Nietzsche 

The Cave of Souls was equal parts dazzling and unsettling but never at the same time. When the candles were out, they danced and seemed as numerous as the stars in the sky. Examining their different sizes, the differences in flame, the brightness was always fun (not for Xibalba). But when the candles were still with nothing but the waterfall there was an eerie atmosphere fear and an entirely new meaning to the word Cave of Souls.

It should not scare La Muerte, the thought of being surrounded by human ghosts. She'd lived as ruler of the Land of the Forgotten for hundreds of years and yet old bursts of fear of the unknown after death from when she was…

"What can I do for my second favorite couple?" the Candlemaker said.

"You can tell us—second favorite?" Xibalba said.

"We need information Candlemaker," La Muerte said. "On Huehuecoyotl. She had a candle in here once."

"She did, she's not the only one," he said, looking uneasy. "She's been quiet for a while now."

"She woke up," Xibalba said.

The Candlemaker frowned and turned back towards his shelf. Amongst the rows of new books, old books, tattered books, colorful books, books with titles and books without, he pulled a large one that La Muerte could hear humming since she entered the Cave. The pages opened and it glowed, not like a light but like a mist of fireflies. She relished the moments she had in the presence of the Book of Life.

"I can only tell you what she was," the Candlemaker said. "Nothing more. 'Once upon a time there was a town-'"

"Skip the prologue."

"Xibalba!"

"In fact, skip most of it," he said.

"Xibalba, it's not the time—"

"Exactly. Just tell us the part where she stopped being human. They made her a god, why?"

The Candlemaker flipped pages and pages ahead and stopped on one, though La Muerte couldn't see what. He read it over first to himself, he frowned some more.

"She was a troublemaker in life, the Old Ones were impressed," he said. "Apparently she let loose some rats in a manor house in Spain and next thing you know it's the Black Death."

"Childish pranks," Xibalba scoffed.

"I don't think that's the point," La Muerte said.

She came around the table and examined the book herself. When she was a human she'd been a troublemaker, she'd played plenty of pranks, many of them ended up deadly by incident alone. Accidents spawned left and right from her actions and yet she kept doing them, in the wake of deaths. That was the point for her, she not only didn't mind it, she relished in getting results. La Muerte even suspected many of these functioned as experiments, testing different ways to cause chaos with minimal effort. That was her as a human. What had she become now? They gave her immortality and she honed magical powers.

But it all meant nothing, they could have guessed this already.

"This is nothing," La Muerte said.

"I agree," Xibalba said.

"Well I tried," the Candlemaker sighed, sending the book back up onto the shelf. "There is, however, if you're interested, it might be nothing but it's worth noting, despite the waste of time—"

"We're interested, just get the damn words out," Xibalba snapped. La Muerte slapped his arm.

"Excuse you. As I was saying, there is an old temple dedicated to Huehuecoyotl not too terribly far from San Angel. It might give you some hints," he said.

It was another start, possibly a stronger one. They had confirmation she was a psychopath, now they needed to know just what exactly the Old Ones armed her with. And that presented another problem, digging too deep in these or directly interfering too far would draw their attention in a bad way. Gods against gods was encouraged, gods against gods on behalf of man was another thing entirely. They were already in trouble for sending Manolo back.

"Thank you Candlemaker," La Muerte said and pulled Xibalba along.

"Don't step on Puddle on the way out," he called.

They had finally moved to the master bedroom a few nights ago. They'd moved many parts of Manolo's old room into it and rearranged as much as they could until Manolo felt comfortable in the room. He knew María was far more comfortable with something as simple as more room in the bed. But the room was also airier, homier, and, in short, much more grown up.

They were both in bed but sitting up. María was reading via candlelight on the bedside table. It was something about the revolution, whatever it was she was engrossed in it, holding it inches from her face. Manolo was simply sitting there, staring into space. He'd been playing the guitar earlier, María beamed when he picked up for the first time in days, tuned it, and began strumming out random tunes.

He'd put it down a while ago though, feeling himself grow drowsy. He knew it would be best to fall asleep with María still awake and active at his side but half of him was afraid to close his eyes and the other half just wanted to enjoy the room. It was dim, Chuy was nestled in a soft, small bed in the corner. The balcony door was propped open and the breeze pushed the sheer curtains in waves.

"You should sleep, mi amor," María said, not looking up from her book. He rested his head back against the headboard and sighed.

"I don't want to."

Next to him, she closed her eyes and let out a sigh of her own as she marked the page and shut her book, setting it down next to her on the table. She turned, propping her head up on her elbow, and faced him. He turned to face her as well and her eyes flickered, for brief moment, to the scar on his chest and then back again. He should ask La Muerte next time about it.

"The less sleep you get, the worse it's going to be," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're tired Manolo."

As if to prove her point she brushed her fingers through his hair and his eyes drifted shut and leaned into her palm. When he opened them she was looking at him softly, no judgment, no annoyance, no sadness. She was just looking.

"I will sleep soon, I promise," he said. "But tell me about Spain." She laughed.

"Manolo I've told you everything there is know about Spain twice," she said.

"You could tell me again," he said, smiling.

"Or you could tell me about San Angel in all that time I was away," she said. "You never talk about it."

He shrugged.

"It wasn't that interesting, not as interesting as Europa," he said.

"Tell me a story Manolo, I've read plenty to you. Your turn."

So he obliged. He told her everything he could remember, in order, starting from the moment she left on the train. He had each dent in his guitar memorized, every new string, every bullfight practice, every grounding. He gave her details about birthdays and holidays, marriages, scandals, gossip. She kept him talking for hours.

And when he ran out of things to say she kissed him and leaned back and pulled him over her. They pealed off clothes one by one and afterwards fell asleep in a mess of tangled limbs and disheveled sheets. Manolo felt safe though, with her arms around him. She was security and shield.

Manolo dreamed himself in the desert. It was no desert he'd ever seen before, it was flat and practically white. There was nothing to be seen, no plants, no animals, no mountains. The sun gave off dark light, eclipsed. The clouds in the sky above him seemed to be moving at a much faster speed than his own.

Standing before him was the image of his mother as she had been in life, thirteen years ago. Lively and kind as she seemed, her eyes were wrong. The color was there but the look was like the venom of a snake. She was looking him up and down and, quite eerily, through him.

"You're not my mother," he said.

"No I'm not."

She didn't move from where she was staring at him and he grew quickly uncomfortable.

"What do you want?" he said.

"I'm looking for something," she said.

"What?"

"What La Muerte sees in you."

He was too unnerved by her to be offended, especially when she stepped closer to him. She circled him, close enough to touch but she never did. She made noises of thought occasionally.

"You don't like this form?" she said. "You're making a face."

He didn't dignify her with a response.

"Well, what about this one?"

And she transformed into María and Manolo tried to keep himself under control. It was María from head to toe, except again, for the eyes, which had no warmth or joy or excitement or any of the things that made María herself.

"Xibalba said you took the form of dead people—"

"Xibalba says a lot of things," she said. "He's a talker. Thinks the more words he uses the more impressed his wife will be. He's insecure, you see. It got him into quite a bit of trouble a few centuries ago. I wasn't sure if she was going to forgive him."

He wanted to ask what happened but he also thought this might be some form of game as well. He kept quiet.

"But, I can take any form I like." She stepped very close to him, placing María's hands on his chest and pulling her body as flush to his as it could get. "Anyone, you like."

"You are not María," he said and she laughed.

"Observant. I honestly cannot see what La Muerte is so attached to in you. It doesn't matter I suppose, as long as she cares," she said.

"You want to hurt her?"

He'd broken his rule. But it was particularly difficult not to engage with her when she spoke with María's voice. He swallowed. He needed to find a way to wake up.

"Why do you think I steal the faces of the dead? It's a nice mockery to her, watching me parade around, doing awful things with their faces, and hands, and bodies," she said.

He needed to wake up. He needed to open his eyes. He needed María to kiss him. She was keeping him talking, if he stayed too long he didn't know what would happen, who she'd turn into, what she'd convince him was real.

That's when the setting around them changed and suddenly they were in the living room of the Casa de Sánchez. It seemed normal enough, it was night, all the windows closed. It was quiet. But she was still there, staring at him, stilling wearing María's face.

"What did you do?" he said, looking around.

"I didn't do this, you did."

He had control then, perhaps. He wanted to wake up at home so his dream sent him there. He had to try harder, think harder.

"Would you like to know about La Muerte? About Xibalba?" she said. "You might be surprised."

"I don't care."

Manolo starting moving around himself, walking around furniture to find something, anything to knock him from the dream, one of María's drawings or dresses or anything. He had to find her in the dream.

"You won't find what you're looking for, boy. You seem on edge," she said.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said.

She walked to the mantle and pulled down the bullfighting sword that belonged to his father, the real world twin had nearly skewered Joaquín only this morning. It's more games, Manolo told himself. It was an attempt at a trigger, an attempt at guilt. It wouldn't work, Manolo would make sure it didn't work.

"Should we test that theory?" she said, swinging the sword as fluidly as the real María might.

"You can't hurt me here, and you can't hurt them." She nodded to him with a smirk.

"We'll see."

And with that she thrust the sword forward right towards his stomach.

He gave out a cry. And it hurt. It hurt a lot. It burned and stung and bruised all at once and Manolo wasn't waking up. He wasn't being jostled awake in his bed by María. Instead he was bleeding, a lot. It was warm and sticky under his hand as it clung to the place where the sword stuck out of his stomach.

It was real.

"You should learn the difference, boy, between dreams and reality," María's smug face said.


End file.
